


I'm Not Stupid

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Non-Stop Gifts/AUs [7]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Birthday Party, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Depression, Isolation, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6289198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where’s your nanny?” she asks him. He stares at her. Tries to think of what she means. Oh. Oh. </p><p>“She went shopping. I’m old enough to be by myself.” He doesn’t say that Rose only comes once a month with groceries, and that she was less of a nanny and more of a delivery truck employee working for SmartFoods. Rose thinks that John’s very responsible for meeting her. She also thinks that John’s mother lives with him. </p><p>She’s just as misinformed as Samantha. Apparently. </p><p>_____</p><p>Non-Stop AU depicting John's troubled childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Stupid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).



> Please note that this story can be triggering and tragic to those who are concerned with child abuse. 
> 
> There is no abuse in the first half of this story, but the second half does have strong mentions of it.

She’s a small woman. Five foot three. Bright blonde hair. Pretty blue eyes. She smiles with perfectly straight teeth exposed. Holds out her hands, manicured nails shimmering in the lights. Rhinestones glued on delicately. John reaches out through the crack in the door. Small wrist fitting through easily enough. Lets her wrap her fingers around his brown palm. “Hello Jack, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”

“Samantha,” he finishes. He knows his father’s wife. He’s not dumb. John drops her hand. Leans a little against the door to his apartment. “What do you want?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to be rude. Doesn’t mean to upset her. But he doesn’t understand why she’s here. 

She smiles irregardless. Nods. Satisfied. Undiscouraged. “Well, I was hoping we might be able to talk?” John hesitates. Eyes flick up to the chain keeping the door secure. He bites his lip. Shuts the door. Unlatches the chain. Opens it. 

“C’mon in…” he mumbles. He stands to the side. Lets her into his apartment. She’s too classy for a place like this. 

There’s a lady-bug infestation in one of the rooms, and he hasn’t dusted in a while. There’s not a  _ mess _ . Not really. He doesn’t have enough things for a mess. But it’s not nice. It’s not what she’s used to. She stands in the center of his apartment, and she takes it all in. 

His face flushes. His heart pounds in his ears. His mouth’s gone dry. His throat’s parched. He wrings his hands around the sleeves of his sweater. Pulls his upper lip into his mouth. Bites it. John’s not used to having guests. Doesn’t know if he should say or do anything. Doesn’t know what she even wanted to see.

If it was just this...she’s seen it. And she can go now. “Where’s your nanny?” she asks him. He stares at her. Tries to think of what she means. Oh.  _ Oh.  _

“She went shopping. I’m old enough to be by myself.” He doesn’t say that Rose only comes once a month with groceries, and that she was less of a nanny and more of a delivery truck employee working for SmartFoods. Rose thinks that John’s very responsible for meeting her. She also thinks that John’s mother lives with him. 

She’s just as misinformed as Samantha. Apparently. 

Samantha smiles. “You are, aren’t you?” He’s lost the thread of the conversation. Doesn’t remember where it started. Pulls harder at his sleeves. The heat’s been in and out lately. He can’t seem to get enough layers on. “I...know that things have been difficult lately.” 

John shrugs. Life is life. There’s nothing he can do to change it. She’s talking. Saying words he knows he should be paying attention to. But he’s tired. And he’s not used to guests. So he’s quiet when he should speak. Awkward when she makes her opinions. Shrugging when she asks him to speak his mind. He kind of wishes she’d just go. Let him crawl under the blankets on his bed and go to sleep. If he sleeps now, he won’t remember how hungry he is. 

Rose’s delivery doesn’t come until Tuesday. 

It’s Saturday. 

She says his name. Twice. He blinks at her. Hugs his arms in front of his chest. “Sorry,” he excuses. “What?” 

“I just thought we could get to know each other a little better?” she tries. Smile wavering on her face. He shrugs again. 

“If you want?” He doesn’t understand why she’d bother. It doesn’t matter. Never did. 

She smiles though. Nods. It’s decided. Striding towards his couch, she sits down. Pats the cushion next to her. He slowly steps forward. Gingerly sits down as far away as he can. Pulls his legs up and digs his heels into the fabric beneath him. “So you’re….eleven?” she asks him. He nods. She waits. Tilts her head toward him. 

John doesn’t know what she wants. Tries to think about the possibilities. Oh. “My birthday’s next week.” Samantha beams. He got it right. 

“Is it? Congratulations! Any plans?” No. Of course not. Why would he have plans? 

The last time he did something for his birthday, Mama had taken him to the beach. They’d gone down and played in the too cold water. Splashing about and chasing the tide. Searching for sand dollars and making shapes out of clouds. She would wake him up with a kiss on the forehead. A tap on the arm. He counted them with her.  _ One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—  _

There wasn’t any more tapping after she died. He doubts there will be tapping now. 

Samantha’s smile is forced. He wishes she’d just go. His report cards have been the same for years now.  _ Bright young man...needs to speak up more.  _ He curls his toes. Pulls his feet in even closer. “I’m really sorry, John.” She has nothing to apologize for. John stares at her. Mouth falling open. She won’t stop. “I know how difficult this must all be for you. And for me to be here...I know that this is hard to talk about.” 

He blinks at her. Tries to piece together her narrative. Feels like a ship lost at sea. What’s going on? Where’s she even going with this? “Can you ever forgive me?” 

“For what?” he asks. He’s confused. He’s missed something. 

“For having an affair with your father?” John stares. Can’t quite seem to piece together what she’s just said. 

“You’re...married?” he tries. Assuming that’s right. 

Samantha shakes her head. Brings a hand to her eyes. And oh, is she crying? John shies away. Even further into the couch. He bites his lip. Wishes she’d never come here. “Before that! When your mother—”

It’s like an icicle piercing through his heart. He flinches. Badly. Recoils so much that his head twists. Eyes glare at the floor. She shouldn’t be talking about his mother. His mother was  _ his  _ and no one else’s. No one else was allowed to talk about her. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “It’s better you were with him.” 

_ Him  _ being with John’s mother never failed to make his skin crawl. Their shouting as familiar a memory as Mama’s arms around his body. Her laugh in his ear.  _ (“Quieres nadar?”)  _ Her hands in his hair. Detangling messy curls. Pressing kisses to his crown. “You should have married him sooner,” he tells Samantha. Because if she had, maybe Mama wouldn’t have been driving. Maybe he wouldn’t be here. 

Maybe he should stop thinking about it. 

Samantha’s face is all twisted up. Her lipstick is making her mouth bright red and splotchy. He hugs his body tight. “You haven’t spent much time with Martha.” His nine year old sister. Who will turn ten knowing she had both parents. Never once alone. John nods. He’s not really had the chance. “I think you two could get along? I’d like it if you could.” 

“Okay.” Because what else was there to say? He looks at Samantha. She smiles as if it’s the last thing she wants to do. She looks around his apartment.

He hasn’t decorated. It’s not in his budget. Has to keep his money going to food or else he won’t have enough. He just bought a new blanket for his bed. A new set of sneakers before that. Even cutting back, he should have cut back more. 

“Do you like it here?” she asks. She lifts her perfectly painted thumb nail to her lips. Forces it back down. Tucking it to the center of her palm and folding her other fingers over it.  _ Now stay there _ . Mama used to paint his thumb with spices to keep him from bringing it to his mouth. 

She gave up when he admitted he liked the taste. 

“Yes?” He doesn’t know if that’s the right response. She’s frowning. Checking her watch. 

“You’ve been here alone a long time.” 

He shrugs. No one else is coming. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Samantha frowns. Settles in. John’s not sure he likes the look in her eye. He’s been trying to be good. Really. He just doesn’t want to get into trouble. “How’re things at school?” she asks. He doesn’t understand the change in conversation. The way that she keeps glancing about. Trying to find something that’s probably not there.

“Good,” he replies. He wonders if she wants to see his report card. His latest test. Should he prove it to her somehow? How? His father makes sure he keeps his grades up. John doesn’t have much to do except study as it is. 

This week’s homework is done already. He’s already started on the next chapter in his book. “Any hobbies?” her voice is straining. Desperate. He shrugs. “Not on any sports teams? Henry said you were athletic?

Sports teams require the after school bus. Parent permission slips. Rides to games or events. Some form of interaction. Parental obligations. John doesn’t have any of that. He shakes his head. “Not like that.” 

He likes to swim. But Mama always said not to go to the beach by himself. And it makes people ask questions like where his parents are. He doesn’t want to answer any more questions. He’s tired of answering questions. 

Samantha seems like she’s getting desperate now. Biting her lips. Smearing streaks of red on her teeth. She wrings her hands together. John tries to straighten his spine. Not collapse into himself. He’s not sure it’s working. 

They sit in silence for almost ten minutes. “Does your nanny have a number for you to call?” Samantha asks. 

“I’m fine by myself,” he replies. She doesn’t like the answer. Frowns at him. 

“Eleven— _ twelve—  _ is still a bit young to be by yourself for  _ hours,”  _ she stresses. He can’t fathom what her reaction would be if she knew he was living by himself. Is honestly surprised that she didn’t know in the first place. 

Hadn’t she been the one to tell his father that she hadn’t wanted him around? Or was that another lie. Another excuse. If his father didn’t want him to ruin his image, he should have just said so. 

The clock on the stove marks time. Samantha’s face gets more serious. Light is fading. Night approaching. 

Rose doesn’t come. 

“That’s it.” Samantha stands. “You’re coming home with me.” John shoots to his feet. Shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. It’s fine. Please no—”

“You can’t live by yourself, Jack!” 

“But I do! And I have been! It’s okay. Please!” His mouth snaps shut. Back-talk. He’s not allowed. He stands before her. Trembling. She waits. Looks at him a long while. Lips pulling down down down. 

“Your father’s on a business trip…” she starts. His heart flutters in his chest. His head swims. She holds out her hand. “Come on, you still have a bedroom at the house. Stay with us for a little while. Play with your sister.” 

He can’t remember what his sister looks like. 

He looks around his apartment. Tries to pretend that this will end well. (He knows he’s lying.)

He takes her hand. 

 

***

 

Samantha asks John if there's anything that he'd like to eat. She heard his stomach growling when she knelt to help him with the zipper of his jacket. He had no trouble putting it on. He wasn't stupid. He could do it. But. The teeth wouldn't slide in right. And it jammed. And he tried tugging it into submission, but it hadn't worked. So she'd knelt. Gently nudged his fingers out of the way. Corrected the error. Zipped it up.

She smiles at him. Holds out her hand. Asks him to choose. John can't remember the last time he chose a place to eat. He didn't particularly have a wide repertoire of food preferences. Henry instructed Rose on what to bring him once a month. And John worked it out from there. A collection of non-perishable goods that John's grown accustomed to making.

None of it's  _ right  _ of course. Mama never got her beans from cans. And she used to laugh at the microwaveable Minute Rice. But John could cook it without fear of burning down the house. Of making a mess. And everything lasted a long while.

When his shelves are fully stocked, Cheerios sit side by side with an assortment of canned goods. He likes the second Tuesday of the month, because when Rose makes her delivery he can organize everything into collections and patterns. Stack them up and count them out. He takes out his school book and writes down his portions. He follows the instructions and practices his math.  _ (Thirty days divided by...) _

"Jack?" John bites his lip. Shrugs. Can't remember what the question was. Samantha's lips are frowning again. A sinking bow that grows more and more taut by the minute. She's been unhappy since she arrived. Her expressions never once improving. He's making a mess of this.

Apparently she already thought that he hated her as it was. So he's not quite sure why any of it matters. She leads him from his apartment. Watches him hawkishly as he slides his key into the lock. Locks the door. "McDonalds?" she asks.

John's nose wrinkles. Mama never let him have McDonalds. "It's bad for you," he echoes. Samantha blinks at him. She's biting her lip again. Doesn't seem to know what to say. He shrugs again. "I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are." Samantha apparently is the type of person who decides things regardless of anyone else's input. "Where would you like to go?"

Anywhere. Nowhere. Back inside? None of those are options. He's being led, hand at his back, out of his apartment. Escorted down to the fancy silver car that looks sorely out of place in his parking lot. She unlocks it with a press of a button on her keychain. Opens the back door for him to slide into. He does. Moving his backpack to rest on his lap.

He buckles up before she can ask him to. Shifts a little so the strap doesn't press too much against his neck. He wants to move it behind his back. But it's not as safe there. When she gets in the car and slides the key into the ignition, he adjusts his position. Nudging it down with his fingers so it can't keep strangling him.

Samantha keeps watching him in the rearview. Taking her eyes off the road. He squeezes his bag tighter. Tries not to think about it. Tries to push it out of his mind. It's not a big deal. He knows it's not. But she keeps doing it, and he wishes she would stop.

The car rumbles beneath him.

It's not that he doesn't  _ like  _ cars. It's just. They're dangerous. He hasn't really been in one since...since. If he leaves early enough, he can walk to school. Doesn't even need to take the bus. And he likes walking. Even when it's raining. Likes jumping in puddles and making a mess. It takes a long time to clean his clothes when he gets home, but the task gives him something to do. Fills up the evening and sometimes gets him sick.

Which is fine. He doesn't care.

"Do you like Mexican?" Samantha asks. He tilts his head a little. Glances out the window. He doesn't recognize this part of town. Or maybe he does. It's a vague recollection. Like he'd been here before, but he can't figure out when.

He likes the architecture. It's old. Colonial. Wooden shutters and brick. There are charming little signs that hang from iron worked bars. There are sidewalks made of cobblestone. Pumpkins by the doors. Ghosts painted on windows.

Halloween is only a few days away. He likes Halloween. Likes borrowing a little from the neighbors so he can go door to door and get free food. No one questions why he's there. No one thinks twice when he takes a handful more of Snickers than he should. No one notices a thing.

He licks his lips. Halloween is so much better than his birthday. "Jack?" Samantha presses. He turns his attention back to her.

"That's fine." She nods. Looks relieved almost. With that final confirmation, she's ready to go. Ready to save the world. She's a hero. John hugs his bag closer. And Samantha takes him to lunch.

***

He eats more than he should. Knows that it'd be better to take leftovers home. He's being stupid. But he can't remember the last time he had  _ arroz con pollo _ . Can't remember the last time soda bubbled up his nose. He's ravenous, and Samantha just keeps ordering more chips and salsa. Asks if he wants to try a Piña Colada. He does. It tastes like heaven.

Samantha's still sad when she looks at him. Still seems uncomfortable with the idea that they're even together. But she's determined to make this work. Whatever this is. And John's not sure he wants to stop her. His father won't be home for at least another week, apparently. And so it shouldn't matter right?  _ (Wrong. He's never been lucky.) _

When they're done eating, she take him home. She drives him down streets that he knows. Up a driveway he used to hate. Into a parking garage where he lost his first tooth. There are more cars here now than there'd been last time. He steps out of the vehicle, and he twists about. Trying to see what else is different.

_ "Juan?"  _ someone asks, and he turns. And he runs. Because he's known Maria Alvarez his whole life. She sets down her dusting spray and cloth. Bends over to scoop him up and hold him close. She speaks to him in Spanish, and he's missed speaking in Spanish. Still misses it. Just as he still misses the smell of spices, which linger on her clothes. The warmth of a hug, which she provides with no ulterior motives. The sound of his name spoken by a woman who knows more Spanish than English. "Juan, Juan, Juan."

His mother always tried to call him "John" or "Jack". But when she was tired or unwell, the 'J' lost its sound. The 'o' ran out longer. The 'h' started slurring. She used to press kisses to his cheek. "Forgive me,  _ mijo _ ?" she'd ask. He always said yes.

Samantha moves closer. And Maria straightens her spine. Apologizes, even as John holds Maria tighter. "It's fine," Samantha tells them. She sounds like she's smiling. Maybe she is. John wonders if she'd allow him to stay here again. Maybe he could sleep in the spare housing with the rest of the staff? He didn't mind cleaning or taking care of the property. He could be really good at it.

And he could stay with Maria. She'd like that. He thinks. Then again, he doesn't want to be an imposition.

"Jack's going to be staying with us," Samantha informs Maria. John wants to ask what that means. Wants to know exactly what she's thinking. Because he can't stay with them. His father won't allow it. And she can't just make a broad statement like that. Because he needs to go home eventually.

Rose is dropping off food on Tuesday, and he needs to be there or else it won't get delivered. And he can't wait for them to reschedule it. He needs them to deliver it on Tuesday. He opens his mouth to speak. Maria does it for him, "Mr. Laurens has approved?" John dares a glance over his shoulder.

Already knows the answer. Samantha's face is a storm cloud. "He will." Maria's squeezing so tight he can feel his spine rearranging. He doesn't complain.  He knows this moment's a heartbeat. A drop in a bucket. A brief sip of water in a great expansive desert, and he will not be coming back again.

His father won't approve. That's okay. This is nice. For however long this is. He presses his cheek against Maria's body. Closes his eyes.

She runs a hand through his curls. Neither of them complain.

***

Martha is pretty and petite. She has her father's brown hair. Her mother's blue eyes. They're darker though; a sort of greenish-grayish-blue that reminds John of the ocean during a storm. She holds out her hand politely. He takes it. They shake. Then she asks him if he'd like to play with her.

He does, and he nods. Martha pulls him along. Walking briskly through the house  _ (no running indoors),  _ and right outside. She's got on tights and a dress, but her feet are adorned with a pair of battered sneakers. Heels stepping down on the backs of her shoes. She didn't even bother to re-tie the laces. Must have toed them off still tied previously. They’re already done, if a bit loose. And she just shoved her foot right in and considered herself set. It can't be comfortable, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"I'm going to be on the field hockey team," she informs John proudly. He nods. Not entirely sure what the rules to field hockey are. Only vaguely understands that girls play it, while boys play lacrosse. He thinks they're somewhat similar?

She's set up nets in the yard. And she hands him a stick. "It's no fun just hitting it in by myself," she reveals. Then promptly starts running after a ball that's sitting still, and John has half a moment to consider before he's chasing after her.

It's fun. It's surprisingly fun. Martha laughs and has no trouble pushing John out of the way if he crowds into her space. She strikes the ball with startling accuracy, and John's severely out classed. He can't bring himself to care.

The fall sun is warm. The wind is blowing pleasantly. Martha's laughing and shouting instructions. Shows him how to hold his hands. The best way to move his feet. She's  _ serious.  _ Asks him if he's stretched yet. He blinks at her wants to tell her " _ no, obviously not. I've been with you the whole time." _

"You have to stretch!" she insists stamping her foot and pointing to the side lines. Then she smiles. "We'll do it together."

Martha's got a routine. And she follows it closely. Jumping jacks  _ ("Like your name!"),  _ lunges, sprints, something vaguely Indian sounding that neither can pronounce right, and high knees. John's muscles burn when they're done. He hasn't spent this much time exercising in a while. But the pain is a bright pleasant buzz under his skin. A strange affirmation of being alive and actually  _ living  _ his life that makes him try to push it just a little more.

Chasing the ball after Martha gives her go ahead. Grinning madly when she cheers. Applauds his goals even though it means she failed to block it. When the sun starts dipping low, she collects their sticks and the ball. Puts them in a small little shed that wasn't there three years ago.

Takes him by his hand and leads him inside. Their shoes are filthy, and she doesn't seem to notice. He tugs back on her hand. Makes her stop. She frowns. "Someone'll clean it up," she tells him when he directs her attention to the trail they're leaving.

"It's rude," he accuses. And she pauses. Mouth falling open. It's as if it never occurred to her before.

"It's their job?"

He snaps back, "So you want to make it harder?"

For a moment, he thinks he's going to make her cry. Her face goes red. Her eyes squint. Nose scrunches. Then she's leaning down and taking her shoes off properly. Sets them by the door. She looks around helplessly for a moment, before finding a broom and bringing it back. Brushing what mud and dirt she can outside.

"You didn't have to..." he starts. Flushing. "I didn't mean..."

Martha looks up at him. Frowns. "But you're right?"

Martha, John decides, has inherited none of her father's traits whatsoever. And she's far too mature for nine years old. She holds out her hand, "I've always wanted an older brother," and John prays their father never comes home.

***

Samantha doesn't cook, but she thanks Alba when the meal is brought out. Tells John and Martha to wash their hands. Listens with a great smile as Martha tells her about all the fun they've had today. John's not used to this. Not used to the talking or the maneuvering. He nods his head when Martha mentions him. Tries to follow the trail of the conversation.

Doesn't want to be distracted again. Just in case. He can't remember the names of everything Martha mentioned, but he does his best. Tries not to flinch when Martha corrects him. When he's definitely gotten it wrong.

But Samantha doesn't chide. Martha doesn't get upset. He finds himself eating food at a dinner table he used to eat at every night. Falling into a strange sense of déjà vu. He licks his lips. And when Alba brings dessert, it's his favorite. A special cocoa recipe just like Mama used to make. Cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top.  Martha doesn't have the same cup. It's lighter. Swiss Miss?

Samantha tilts her head towards his. Arches a brow. Alba looks like she might start apologizing, but it's not her fault. It's his. "My mother made it for me," he chokes out. Samantha's mouth opens. Closes. She smiles.

"Enjoy," she wishes.

He doesn't understand. But he takes a sip anyway. He  _ enjoys. _

It tastes so good he's almost brought to tears. Whispers " _ Gracias Abuela Alba," _ when she comes to take his mug.

"You speak Spanish?" Martha asks, bouncing in her seat. John flushes. Nods.

"My mother taught me."  He doesn't say there's a lot he doesn't know. That he forgets. That he tries to teach himself, because he misses her so much and it's the only thing that lingers between them. He doesn't say that he can't read it very well. That he's been trying to learn, but his seventh grade Spanish class is still caught up in saying  _ Cómo estás? Muy bien, y tu.  _ And he wants to know how to say:  _ I'm lonely without you, I wish you were here, why did you have to go? _

"Can you teach me?" Martha asks. The question makes no sense. He stares at her. Tries to work out her reasoning. Can't come up with any that work. Why on Earth would she  _ want  _ to learn Spanish?

When she'll never be able to practice it? When it's not a good thing to know? When father will be so disappointed. "I think that's a wonderful idea," Samantha encourages.

John looks over toward Alba. Tries to understand. But Alba seems as perplexed as he feels. Maybe this is all a joke. A game. Something that Samantha is entertaining because she's bored. John isn't sure he wants to find out. He bites his lip. "When's father coming home?" he asks quietly. Samantha hesitates. Then smiles.

"Thursday," she tells him.

He doesn't plan to stay later than Monday. He bites his lip. Nods.

Samantha rises from her chair. "Let's find you something to wear for bed, okay?"

Okay.

***

It's strange, being in his old room again. He lies on his back. Stares up at the ceiling. Over at the furniture. Out past the frames of his windows. He curls underneath blankets that are neither dusty nor familiar. Someone had changed them. Kept them fresh. He doesn't understand why the room was kept exactly the way it always had been.

Why someone didn't change it? Give it to Martha? Do something else? It made little sense to keep his room like this. Even less sense considering that there were still lingering traces of his mother hiding here or there. John finds them tucked in the corners of drawers. Movie tickets they saw together. A shawl she wrapped around him once when he'd been cold. The back to an earring she lost a long time ago.

They items are garbage. Junk. Easily overlooked. He cradles them to his chest anyway. Holding on tight and not letting go. He puts them all in his backpack. Anything he can find. Puts them there, and swears he's taking them with him. He's not leaving them to be destroyed or lost.

John then lies on his bed. Holding the backpack close. Wills himself to sleep. He can't quite seem to do it. The strange silence of the house, so far off the road, only makes every noise that much more prevalent. He can hear the floorboards creak. The wind as it slips in against the siding. The trees groaning as they bend in the distance.

When sleep comes, he cannot tell if his dreams are just that. Dreams or nightmares. Cannot discern whether hearing his mother's voice is a good or bad thing. Whether feeling her heartbeat against his ear is meant to be pleasant or tragic. John stands in a field surrounded by mud and grass, and his mother waves goodbye.  Gets into her car. Drives away.

He wakes up feeling empty. Alone.

There's a knock at the door. Morning sun coating his room with silvery grey. "Come in?" he gurgles out. The door opens. Alba. She's got a small cup of tea. His eyes well.

_ "Buenos días, pequeño."  _ She steps forward. Shuts the door behind her. Moves to sit beside him on the bed. The cup is placed on his bedside table with care, and then she opens her arms. Lets him crawl closer. Curl against her side. This time, he falls asleep to a lullaby humming in his ear.

And this time, he doesn't dream of anything at all. His mind is quiet. He doesn't want this to end.

***

Days slip by.

John hates it. Hates how warm he feels. Hates how comfortable he is in his bed. Hates how Alba and Maria take turns hugging him, playing with his hair. Hates how Carlos is still working as a groundskeeper, and is delighted that John's back  _ home.  _ Hates how much he genuinely likes Martha. Samantha.

How scared he is of returning.

Samantha takes him to the store. She buys him new clothes. Comfy and warm. She brings Martha and him to the museum and they look at paintings. She brings them to a pottery class, and John shapes a slightly malformed vase. Stares down at the white streaks on his dark skin, and wonders if he can just paint his skin white. Pretend that he fits in. Pretend that he looks more like the rest of his father's family.

He washes his hands in a sink with Martha. Scrubs and cleans them as best he can. He waits for the inevitable joke that he can't scrub away all the dirt staining his skin. But it doesn't come. Martha just waits for him to finish and then takes him by the hand. Leads him to her cup. Even with a malformed handle and a depressed looking lip, it seems rather finely crafted. He likes it.

She grins. Tells him he can keep it. He gives her his vase. It's the least he can do. She holds it to her chest for the rest of the day. He wonders why she does it. Why it matters to her. She doesn't explain. Just smiles. Takes his hand.

Leads him on another adventure.

Monday comes, and he's grateful for the excuse it provides. Doesn't really believe that Samantha will let him come back to the apartment as it is. So when she drops him off at school, he knows that he's got one chance at this. He attends class. Finishes his day in quiet and unobtrusive invisibility. Then, rushes home so that he can close and lock the door. Slide down so that he's sitting against it.

It's only an hour later that there's a knock at his door. "Jack? Jack it's Samantha?"

John doesn't care. No. He does. His eyes well with tears. He shakes his head against his knees. "Jack, I just want to make sure you got home okay. Jack?"

It's rude to ignore people. She knocks on the door again. He forces himself to open it. "I'm fine," he rasps. Trying not to cry. Ignoring the tears that are already there.

"Honey? Please? Can I come in?" He shakes his head.

"I have to do homework." Samantha nods. Nods frantically.

"I know, I know, and that's okay. Really. I just. Honey, please?" He shouldn't open the door. But he does. He unlatches the chain. He steps aside. He lets her kneel down and pull him into a hug. Fancy tights pressing against his peeling wood floors.

"I have to be here tomorrow to pick up the delivery," he explains. He's staring off over her shoulder. Doesn't know what else to say.

She says it for him. "Martha's waiting in the car. Come home with us, and tomorrow, I'll stay here with you all night. We'll get your delivery, and I'll help you put it away. And you won't be alone. Okay?"

It sounds too nice. He isn't sure he knows how to say thank you. How to say no. He can't do that. The days are ticking down, and it's not good to get attached to things he can't have. Will never have. But he's stupid. Always has been. He nods.

Lets her lead him back out of the safety of his apartment, and downstairs. Martha smiles at him when he sits in the car next to her. "What'd you do today?" she asks. John shrugs. Asks her the question instead. Martha loves talking about her day. And she chatters the whole way home.

Nothing in life is permanent.

_ God, _ he wishes that that weren't true.

***

 

Samantha makes good on her promise. She’s there with him when Rose comes with the groceries. John tries not to pay attention to them as he puts the goods away. Tries not to listen as Samantha asks if John has always been by himself. If there really hasn’t been anyone there. How Rose breathlessly whispers that she thinks that’s right. That she’s been so concerned. 

He puts it all away. “I can look after myself,” he whispers to the Quaker Oats cannister. Samantha draws him to her. Wraps her arms around him. 

“But the thing is? You don’t have to.” 

He thinks she’s lying.

That the world doesn’t work like that. 

He still lets her take him by his hand, and bring him back to the house. He drinks cocoa with Martha, and Samantha puts on a movie in the TV. Time slips away. And all he feels is warmth. 

“Buenos noches,” Martha mispronounces as she waves goodnight. 

“ _ Buenas _ noches,” he tells her back. It almost feels like something familiar. He almost feels safe. 

 

*** 

 

They celebrate his birthday.

Maria and Alba wake him up. Twelve pats to the arm each. They bring him downstairs and they make him a cup of cocoa with cinnamon and nutmeg. They send him to school with kisses on his cheeks.

He comes home to streamers. Presents. Wrapped boxes that he has no idea what to do with. A great big blue cake. Martha smiling. Dragging him to a box and insisting that he open this one first. "It's from me!" Samantha's filming it with one of those new fancy camcorders. The video's going to be terrible.

He's crying and smiling, and he can't get the words out. But Martha's talking enough for both of them, so he thinks it'll be okay. Maybe? Still can't quite get his head around the fact Samantha wants him on tape. Because videos are permanent. They're the kind of thing that you film so you can remember something a long time ago. And he tries not to be scared when he opens the first box. Tries not thinking that this could all be a joke.

It's not. It's a book about the ocean. The next one is a set of nice new winter clothes. (He gets three of those as he goes through the boxes). There's a fancy Halloween costume. There's a box of new pencils. A sketch pad. There's some running clothes. Cleats. "So we can play together!" Martha cheers.

There's a soccer ball. There are tennis shoes. There's a couple of posters he can decorate his walls with. There's a box of cocoa. There's a fancy wallet. There's a photo album filled with photos of his mother as a child.

He's sobbing into his wrapping paper. Samantha puts the camera down. Wraps him in her arms. "Stay here with us," she asks him. He  _ can't _ say yes. It's  _ not _ a good idea to say yes. It's such a  _ bad _ idea to say yes.

He says yes anyway. 

He's so tired of being alone. 

Martha reaches out her hand to John, and he takes it. Smiling as she leads him to the birthday cake. Red velvet with white and blue frosting.  _ (Like the Puerto Rican flag) _ . John wipes the tears from his eyes. He licks his lips. Samantha lights the candles. Everyone gathers round. 

And it feels like something from years ago. They're in the Great Room instead of the kitchen, they're surrounded by baubbles and pretty lights, and not a fire in a wood burning stove. But Carlos, Maria, and Alba are there. All of the staff is there. With their brown and black faces squished in beside the yellow and white. 

There's a brief pause, and then someone breathes in sharply - queuing off the song. It's not Happy Birthday. It's  _ Feliz Cumpleaños. _ Martha's stumbling over the strange words, Samantha's faring much better, and he stares at them both. Wide eyed. Mouth falling open. He has no more tears to shed. They're trying. They're really trying. And he doesn't know how to say thank you. 

The words don't come naturally. He hasn't said them in so long. 

He reaches out, and he hugs Martha tight.  _ “Gracias hermana pequeña,”  _ he manages. 

_ “De nada!”  _ She says back, looking to Alba for confirmation. Alba’s dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Nodding her approval. John hugs Samantha next. 

He can almost convince himself that everything’s perfect. 

And then his father comes home. 

And it’s not. 

The door opens, and John turns. His father’s in the doorway. John’s fingers turn limp. The plate he’d been holding falls. It shatters against the floor. Martha yelps and takes a step back. No one else has moved. Father’s eyes skate across the room. The streamers. The presents. The cake. The assorted staff. They stop on John, and they don’t move away. 

John’s frozen. He can’t breathe. He’s sorry. He shouldn’t be here. He’s so stupid. 

“Henry,” Samantha greets. Tone icy. She moves forward. A big cat hunting its prey. Her eyes are sharp. Her teeth bared. “We should talk.” 

She’s supposed to greet him. Take his jacket off. Ask how his day was. John can see the trainwreck before it starts. He can’t breathe. Someone places their hand on his shoulder. Pulls him back. Alba. “Come, we wouldn’t want you to step on the glass.” He has no idea what she’s talking about. Samantha and Henry are leaving the room, and Alba pulls John close. 

Takes him away. Martha trailing behind them. “What’s going on?” she asks. John’s tongue is cotton. His gums are felt. He stumbles. Legs turning to jelly. Alba sits him down in a kitchen chair. “What’s going on?!” Martha asks louder. Stamping her feet. 

There’s arguing floating up in the distance. John knows how this goes. He presses his hands to his eyes. He shouldn’t have come back. He’s made it all wrong. He should have insisted. Should have never opened the door. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

The screams were getting louder. “Are mom and dad fighting?” Martha asks. John wants to leave. Wants to set things right. He’ll leave the presents behind. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, but they shouldn’t have spent money on him. They can return everything. He’ll just take the album. Just that. It’s his mother. His father wouldn’t want it anyway. He knows that. Just the album and he’ll go. 

He’ll go. 

The shouting has subsided. 

Alba approaches John and pushes a mug of cocoa between his palms. He doesn’t want to drink it. Can’t bear the taste. It’s too much. He can’t. It’s too much.  _ Please no.  _ Alba takes it back. Just in time. Samantha and Father have returned. John stares up at them. “I’m sorry,” he starts. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here. I—”

“It’s all right,” Father tells him. Walks forward. Pats Martha on the head and kneels in front of John. John’s shaking. His father’s eyes don’t look right. They’re flinty and cold. But he brings his hands up gently. Presses his hand to John’s head. “We’d like it if you could stay here,” he offers.

It’s a trap. 

He knows he cannot say no. But he wishes he could. Wishes that he had a choice. He nods his head. “C’mon,” Father offers. “Let’s go back to your apartment. Get your things. You’re going to stay with us from now on.” 

Martha cheers. Elated. Samantha is smiling smugly in the doorway. But Alba’s hands tremble around the mug. And John wishes the ground would swallow him whole. Why couldn’t he have just died in the car with his mother? 

Why did he have to be here? 

His father helps get him onto his feet. Leads him to the door. John looks over his shoulder at Alba. She’s got one hand pressed against her mouth. Eyes wide. He doesn’t want to go. He can’t say no. 

They leave the house together. 

John sits in his father’s car. 

 

***

 

They don’t speak. John’s okay with that. He shakes in the back seat. He trembles uncomfortably. He squeezes his eyes shut. The ride should only take twenty minutes. But time lost its meaning after the second count of sixty. John doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to say. 

The car stops. He stumbles out of the car. Shies around his father to unlock the door to the apartment. Tries not to feel trapped and isolated when the door clicks shut. When his father peers down his nose at him. Calls him a disgrace. “How could you do this to me?”

“I”m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it I—” 

Father steps forward. John swallows his tongue. He trips backwards. Crying before he’s even struck. Weak. Pathetic. “I never wanted to see you again,” Father seethes. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I tried to— I’m sorry!” 

“ _ Pack,”  _ he’s ordered. 

John packs. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s just grabbing and shoving. Clothes. Blankets. Anything. Everything. He doesn’t have a box. But garbage bags. He can use those. 

He works as fast as he can. But it’s not fast enough. Father paces. One side of the apartment to the other. Mumbling furiously to himself. Tells John to hurry. John does. He goes as fast as he can. He’s trying. 

It’s not fast enough. Father yells. Tells him to hurry. Takes the bag from John’s hands to show him how it’s done. And  _ no, wait. That’s glass. Please don’t. Please. That’s Mama’s— _

Glass shatters into the black bag. John flinches. Hands frozen in mid air. Father’s breathing hard. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. John bends towards the bag. Father turns sharply. His elbow collides with John’s head. He stumbles. Trips. His head knocks against the corner of the counter. And it isn’t hard. It isn’t a much. 

But it’s  _ just  _ enough. 

John’s unconscious before he hits the ground. He wonders if he’s allowed to die now. 

 

***

 

He can’t open his eyes. It takes too much effort. He feels hands at his throat. By his mouth. And he can’t do anything. Can’t react. He’s frozen. Immobile. Locked in place. 

Feels his body start to float up into the air. Swaying. Swaying. Swaying. Clicks and ticks. Locks slide into place. Tumblers fall. He hears the sound of the ocean in the distance. Cars crashing on the highway. A heartbeat. Too fast. Too slow. Steady. Uneven. John’s confused. 

His body touches back down to earth. Something slams shut. The lid of a coffin. 

And John’s eyes open. The world is dark. 

John can’t move. Can’t think. His tongue buzzes. His skin crawls. He bends his joints. Feels the earth start shaking beneath him. Coming alive. Roaring. Pop pop.  _ (“It’s an antique.”) _ “I killed him. I fucking killed him.” 

Father’s hissing. He’s spitting. The ground gets louder. The darkness thicker. John’s fading in and out. 

“No I’m not making this up! What the hell do I do?” 

John thinks Father should be quiet now. But he can’t make the thought leave his lips. He closes his eyes. 

Opens. 

It’s dark. Everything’s dark. He coughs. His hands raise. He tries to feel around him. Black. Black. Black dark and solid. He can’t breathe. He’s sick. He’s going to be sick. He turns over. Pukes. He doesn’t feel good. He tries to sit up. But there’s metal and fabric all around. He hits his hand on the top. The bottom. 

“Help,” his voice is a whisper. His breath stretching away into nothingness. 

“I’m going to spend the night with John. There’s, a lot we need to discuss,” Father speaks. Voice so quiet and far away. He shakes his head. Pain flares through him. Ow. Ow. Ow. What? What was that? He doesn’t remember. Doesn’t understand. But it hurts. And he wants it to stop. 

Please. 

He’s sorry. 

He touches the top. Hits it. Hits it. Hits it. There are tears in his eyes. They sting. Bees needling their way through his sclera. He makes a sound. A whining moan. He presses his hands up again. “I have to go,” his father says. 

There are bangs. There are footsteps. Don’t leave him alone. Don’t leave him. John cries out. 

The dark lifts. Only just. A faint glimmer casts an outline on his father’s body. Car. John’s in a car. The trunk. He opens his mouth. “I thought you were dead,” Father admits. 

John mangles his words. “Not. Not. Not.” He struggles to sit up. The trunk is closed. It bounces against his head. Pain magnifying tremendously. He yelps. 

Curls in on himself. The car starts up (again?) and he swallows back vomit as the darkness reaches into his body. Takes hold of his heart. 

And squeezes it until there’s nothing left. 

The darkness doesn’t lift. He’s scared. But when he tries to make a sound, nothing comes out. 

 

***

 

He’s floating again. Floating. Floating. Flying. ‘ _ Mjio’  _ echoes in his ears. He reaches for it. Dreams of it. Thinks he feels arms around him. Wants that more than anything else. 

His skin is so cold. So very cold. Pain lances across his head. Something feels sharp and intolerable. He hisses. Flinches. Whimpers. Tries to apologize. Can’t quite. His shirt’s not on. His shirt’s not on, and he doesn’t want. Doesn’t understand. He tries to open his eyes. Hands. 

Hands everywhere. On his chest. His hips. His button. Zipper. He tries to wriggle away. Whines high in his throat. He doesn’t. Doesn’t. Doesn’t what? Want this? That. Yes. But. Also. Wait. 

What? 

His pants are being pulled down. He tries to push up. Away. Can’t think. His head is screaming. Aching. He’s crying. He’s naked. He tries to open his eyes. But the burning pain is too much. It’s too bright. It’s too—

His body is lifted. Deposited almost gently in something cold. So cold. Cold and hard. He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t like this. Doesn’t want to be here. He remembers this. Something about this. Cold showers.  _ (“Not good enough for hot water”).  _ He apologizes. Thinks he’s apologizing. 

Water hits his back. Icy cold. He shouts. It’s too cold. It’s too cold. He’s freezing. He’s- His head’s being shoved hard against the side of the tub. Not hard enough to create another wound. No. Just enough to reopen whatever had been there previously. Blinding light flashes through him. John can’t breathe. The water is turning his skin icy. He sags down. Shivering. Flailing. He’s sorry. 

He’s sorry. Didn’t he say that already? 

What’s the point? No one ever listens anyway. 

“Just a little longer….” Father tells him. Soothing. Hand on the back of his neck. Holding him in place. John doesn’t ask any questions. There are tears mixing with icy water. No one knows but him. His hair is soaking. His head is screeching. There’s agony coursing through him. John gives up. 

He knew better than to open that door. 

He really is an idiot. 

 

***

 

An ambulance is called. “I didn’t hear him. Oh God, I didn’t hear him!” John’s eyes flutter. He’s being lifted up. Placed on a stretcher. A towel is wrapped around his waist. He shivers. He’s cold. Lights cross in front of his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling. 

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t like this game anymore. He just wants to sleep. 

They carry him out of the house. They. He doesn’t know who. Just. They. They are the ones who place him in an ambulance. Who drive to the hospital. Who tend to his head. Warm his skin. He is detached. Floating. Watching himself in third person point of view. Narrating his life in his mind. 

And the boy on the stretcher is not dead. He hurts too much to be dead. It’s a small comfort in its own right. He’s still alive. He’s still here. He’s tired. 

The boy on the stretcher falls asleep. 

John closes his eyes. 

Blocks out the rest of the world. It’s not his problem anymore.

 

***

“What happened?” the doctor asks. 

“Fell in the shower,” John replies. A note is made on his chart. A frown is directed his way. He rolls on his side. He’s left alone. The doctor’s at the end of a four day late night shift. She’s tired. She can’t bring herself to care. 

 

***

“What happened?” the police ask. 

“Fell in the shower,” John replies. He’s asked to confirm that no one pushed him. No one intentionally struck him. It was an accident. There’s no evidence of soap in the tub, he’s told. He’s clumsy, he replies. Everyone knows that. The police leave. They don’t ask any other questions. 

 

***

“What happened?” Martha asks. 

“Fell in the shower,” John replies. She tells him that he should be more careful. Reaches up on tippy-toes and kisses the side of his head. It hurts. But he doesn’t tell her that. It’s not his place to say. He’s not supposed to say anything. He knows better. 

 

***

_ “¿Que pasó?”  _ Alba asks. 

John reaches for her. Wraps his arms around her. And cries. He never tells her. He can’t. He’s not supposed to. 

But he can’t lie either. 

She lets him get away with it. 

But she tenures her resignation the next day.  _ (He will never see her again.)  _

***

 

“What happened?” Samantha asks. 

“Fell in the shower,” John replies. Her lips press tightly together. Her hands shake with rage. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I’m not.” Samantha turns on her heel. She walks out of the room. He can’t hear the fight when it starts. Isn’t there to see the aftermath. 

But he knows facts. 

Knows that Samantha took Martha and they left the house for good. That Samantha hired a divorce attorney. Served papers on his father. Knows that she didn’t ask for money. Didn’t ask for anything. 

She just wanted Martha and John. 

***

 

Samantha loses her case. She’s given a lot of money. She gets joint custody of Martha. She gets no custody of John whatsoever. 

John doesn’t go back to his apartment again. 

Instead, he’s sent north. Where no new wife can see or find him. Out of sight and out of mind. His new apartment is quiet. It’s small. At some point, his belongings arrive via mail. All of them. Including the photo album and the birthday presents. His father doesn’t apologize with words. But actions… John can’t remember the last time his father did something nice for him. 

And this is nice. 

In its own way. 

There’s a knock at his door. “Jack? It’s me...Samantha.” 

He’s not surprised. 

But this time, he doesn’t answer it. He put headphones in his ears. Drags his sketchbook closer. Runs a pencil across the page. Drowns her out entirely. 

He’s not stupid. 

He learns from his mistakes. 

This time, the door stays firmly shut. She knocks for about a week. Then she never comes back again. 


End file.
